FERRAND.No? What is it then you do to make face against the necessities of life? A living?
MRS.MEGAN.Sells flowers.
FERRAND.[Rolling his eyes.] It is not a career.
MRS.MEGAN.[With a touch of devilry.] You don't know what I do.
FERRAND.Ma'moiselle, whatever you do is charming.
[MRS.MEGAN looks at him, and slowly smiles.]
MRS.MEGAN.You're a foreigner.
FERRAND.It is true.
MRS.MEGAN.What do you do for a livin'?
FERRAND.I am an interpreter.
MRS.MEGAN.You ain't very busy, are you?
FERRAND.[With dignity.] At present I am resting.
MRS.MEGAN.[Looking at him and smiling.] How did you and 'im come here?
FERRAND.Ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same question.
MRS.MEGAN.The gentleman let me.'E's funny.
FERRAND.'C'est un ange' [At MRS.MEGAN's blank stare he interprets.] An angel!
MRS.MEGAN.Me luck's out-that's why I come.
FERRAND.[Rising.] Ah! Ma'moiselle! Luck! There is the little God who dominates us all.Look at this old! [He points to TIMSON.]
He is finished.In his day that old would be doing good business.
He could afford himself--[He maker a sign of drinking.]--Then come the motor cars.All goes--he has nothing left, only 'is 'abits of a 'cocher'! Luck!
TIMSON.[With a vague gesture--drowsily.] Kick the foreign beggars out.
FERRAND.A real Englishman....And look at me! My father was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels.If I had been content to go in his business, I would 'ave been rich.But I was born to roll--"rolling stone"to voyage is stronger than myself.Luck!..
And you, Ma'moiselle, shall I tell your fortune? [He looks in her face.] You were born for 'la joie de vivre'--to drink the wines of life.'Et vous voila'! Luck!
[Though she does not in the least understand what he has said, her expression changes to a sort of glee.]
FERRAND.Yes.You were born loving pleasure.Is it not? You see, you cannot say, No.All of us, we have our fates.Give me your hand.[He kneels down and takes her hand.] In each of us there is that against which we cannot struggle.Yes, yes!
[He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own.MRS.
MEGAN remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.
TIMSON.[Flickering into consciousness.] Be'ave yourselves! Yer crimson canary birds!
[MRS.MEGAN would withdraw her hand, but cannot.]
FERRAND.Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle.He is a Puritan.
[TIMS0N relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which falls with a crash.]
MRS.MEGAN.Let go my hand, please!
FERRAND.[Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.]
There is one thing I have never done--'urt a woman--that is hardly in my character.[Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her face.] Tell me, Ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long?
MRS.MEGAN.I dunno--lots, I thinks of.
FERRAND.Shall I tell you? [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along."]
He goes on in his ironic voice.] It is of the streets--the lights--the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love.That is for you what the road is for me.That is for you what the rum is for that old--[He jerks his thumb back at TIMSON.Then bending swiftly forward to the girl.] See! I kiss you--Ah!
[He draws her forward off the stool.There is a little struggle, then she resigns her lips.The little stool, overturned, falls with a clatter.They spring up, and move apart.The door opens and ANN enters from the house in a blue dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above her head.Taking in the strange half-circle round the stove, she recoils.Then, standing her ground, calls in a voice sharpened by fright: "Daddy--Daddy!"]
TIMSON.[Stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.) All right!
I'm comin'!
FERRAND.Have no fear, Madame!
[In the silence that follows, a clock begins loudly striking twelve.ANN remains, as if carved in atone, her eyes fastened on the strangers.There is the sound of someone falling downstairs, and WELLWYN appears, also holding a candle above his head.
ANN.Look!
WELLWYN.Yes, yes, my dear! It--it happened.
ANN.[With a sort of groan.] Oh! Daddy!
[In the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to chime.]
FERRAND.[Softly, in his ironic voice.] HE is come, Monsieur! 'Appy Christmas! Bon Noel!
[There is a sudden chime of bells.The Stage is blotted dark.]
Curtain.
